Flee the Night: Team Hope Series #1
By Susan May Warren
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Chapter 1
The past couldn't have picked a worse time to find her.
Trapped in seat 15A on an Amtrak Texas Eagle chugging through the Ozarks at 4:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, Lacey . . . Galloway . . . Montgomery-what was her current last name?-tightened her leg lock around the computer bag at her feet. She dug her fingers through the cotton knit of her daughter's sweater as she watched the newest passenger to their compartment find his seat. Lanky, with olive skin and dark eyes framed in wire-rimmed glasses, it had to be Syrian assassin Ishmael Shavik, who sat down, fidgeted with his leather jacket, then impaled her with a dark glance.
She couldn't stifle the shiver that rattled clear to her toes. Why hadn't she listened to divine wisdom fifteen years ago and stayed at home instead of running after adventure? Lacey forced breath through her constricting chest. She hadn't hoped to outrun her mistakes forever, but why today with Emily watching?
Lacey pried her fingers out of her daughter's sweater and laced her hands together in her lap, cringing at her weakness. She'd been taught not to give away emotions, liabilities, secrets. But she'd die before she'd let them harm a hair on Em's head.
If only she'd possessed such an impulse seven years ago.
Tightening her jaw, she stared out the window. The Amtrak hustled north in the murky dawn, the Missouri oak, red buckeye, and hickory trees flanking the tracks-gray, silent sentries to her ill fate.
Oh, please, not here. Not now. She and Emily were so close to finally finding peace. Now that the Wizard program had met National Security Agency (NSA) approval, the nightmare seemed to be over. After this little time out and escape with her daughter to Chicago, Lacey would fine-tune the encryption/decryption program, then hand it over with a sigh of relief and the sense that she'd finally found a way to atone for her mistakes. Never again would the field agents be without a way to secure their communications. No more ambushes due to intercepted messages. No more corrupted information.
Lives-and national secrets-safe.
And finally, too, a safe home for Emily. Please.
She didn't know to whom she might be addressing her plea. God in heaven hadn't looked her way for over a decade-not that she blamed Him. She was wretchedly on her own.
Around her, innocents slept-families, singles, the petite bourgeoisie voyaging to Chicago or beyond. Wealthy romantics above them chose the compartments, perhaps for nostalgia or novelty. Lacey didn't have a romantic bone left in her body, despite the aroma of a dining car, the charisma of faux leather seats, or even the hypnotic locomotive pulse. She didn't have the energy or time for it, even if the errant inclination to be held in a man's arms haunted her in the lonely hours of the predawn. Then again, it wasn't just any man's embrace that haunted her.
Lacey rubbed her forehead and considered her options. It hadn't been so long ago that she'd memorized the exits and the players of every room she entered. Hope had smudged her reflexes. Ishmael sat two seats away smack-dab in the middle of the car, blocking a desperate sprint down the aisle. The forest hurtled by at breakneck speed, discouraging a flying dismount.
Lacey stuck her hand in her pocket to rifle for her switchblade and brushed against Emily's Boppy, her worn Beanie bear and only confidant. Lacey had sent the child the Beanie Baby from Seattle -she still remembered the neon lights striping her hotel room, mocking her as she wrote a note to her toddler daughter, secreted in Aunt Janie's care.
Life wasn't fair.
She found the knife and tucked it under her thigh as she stole another glance at her killer. It sent a decade-old threat through her head: You can't run from me.
She blew out a breath and fought her climbing pulse as she clung to her training. Surprise. Focus. Determination. These things would help her flee, keep her alive.
What about Em? She longed to run her fingers across her daughter's face, over the smattering of freckles on her high cheekbones, then through the short curly blonde hair that, like John's, simply refused to obey a brush or a comb. Emily smelled of the fabric softener her aunt Janie used in the laundry and soap from her predeparture bath. Curled into the fetal position, the six-year-old leaned her head against the dark pane, drooling on the pillow tucked under her shoulder. Her breathing seemed shallow, uneven, as if she were caught in the throes of a nightmare. But it was only the scars of a desperate and fatal mistake-one for which Lacey could never, ever forgive herself. Regrets wouldn't help her now, she reminded herself. Not when her murderer stared at her like a slit-eyed wolf.
The air felt weighted with the slumber of passengers, some stirring, others in full collapse. The quiet pressed Lacey into her seat, made her heartbeat thunder in her ears. Fatigue played with her fear, pitting it against hope. Perhaps the man who had boarded this train wasn't the same one who had threatened to slit her throat from ear to ear. Frank Butter's long arm of revenge.
Lacey had been careful. So careful she'd lost herself years ago in the torrent of aliases and the blur of constant movement. She often wondered if she would ever, even if the nightmare ended, find her way home.
She swept her attention casually across the travelers opposite the aisle. Asians. A family of overseas tourists, judging by the way they clutched their bags to their chests and eyed the other passengers. She connected with an elderly man, his gray hair in high-and-tight spikes around his round wrinkled face. He looked at her with such disdain, she wondered if he could see through her to her ugly past and abhor her for her mistakes.
He wouldn't be the only one.
Ishmael chose that moment to clear his throat, as if hoping to arrest her attention.
Lacey stiffened and forced her gaze to the carpeted floor. Maybe she should throw her body over Emily and beg in Arabic for their lives. Or grab the Wizard-the one thing that could redeem her lost soul-tuck Emily under her arm, and bolt?
If only Micah were here. That thought drilled a hole so deep through Lacey's chest she nearly gasped. Yeah, right. He'd be lining up behind Ishmael for kill rights.
Movement, a sigh from the nemesis in seat 13D.
Lacey's heart lodged in her throat as she fingered the six-inch blade hidden under her leg. Habit dictated its presence. The metal handle pinched the bunched flesh of her fingers.
Ishmael rose, glanced past her, as if trying to mentally distance himself from his prey, then tottered down the aisle. Lacey's fingers turned white on her armrest.
Ishmael had filled out in presence, if not in girth, and added gusto to his swagger. His gaunt face betrayed more lines, his eyes harder as he stared forward, as if he didn't recognize the woman he'd framed for murder. Lacey froze, her instincts draining from her body.
He bumped down the aisle. . . .
She eased the knife out, hid it in her palm. Held her breath.
He passed by her without even a nod.
Her breath drained, her heart crammed between her ribs. So maybe she'd been imagining-
The train shuddered, a ripple of pain along the body of steel, then a gut-twisting squeal of metal on metal. Lacey grabbed the seat rests. The passageway lights strobed and died. "What-!"
Her heart bucked as the car lurched, jumped. She reached for Emily but snared thin air as momentum yanked her from her seat. Her body wrestled with gravity and a visceral scream. The computer bag walloped her on the chin. Blood filled her mouth.
"Em!" She slammed against bodies, hitting her hip hard, arms flailing. "Em!" Around her, terror-filled voices competed for significance. Explosions pummeled the compartment. Lacey instinctively covered her head. "Emily!"
Metal screeched against forest or perhaps rail. Smoke. As she pitched through the twisting carriage, Lacey groped for purchase on anything-an armrest, a seat cushion, her daughter.
She landed with a bone-jarring slap. Hot pain exploded up her arm and into her brain. She sprawled broken, breathless, cocooned in bodies. "Emily." The stench of fear filled her nose, choking her. Her breath came like fire.
Then darkness.